The Elder Scrolls: Nightmare in Valenwood
by Atlas Aztlan
Summary: Set during the Fourth Era, this tale weaves the journey of a legendary Bosmer archer named Atlas- leading into (and going beyond) the events of the Dragon Crisis. Starting with his storied past in the wilds of Valenwood, then steered towards the other kingdoms of Tamriel, Atlas' path even comes to align itself with that of the fabled Nordic hero- "the Last Dragonborn"!


7th of Rain's Hand, 4E 191

_The Wilds of Valenwood_

The great trees of his homeland shielded the sky from any clear terrestrial point of view, revealing only intermittent patches of light blue and snow white. Carried by the breeze of the winds, the scent of fresh rainfall and lavender coalesced into an aromatic and rich blend. Under the spell of Valenwood's beautiful presence, one could almost forget their place in time. Their past. Their present. Their mysterious and uncertain future. But not for young Sataval. For, despite being of Bosmer lineage, _Y'ffre_ and its holy blessings often went unheeded. And why? Because his mind was always focused on the times to come.

It had to be.

Orphaned at a very young age, Sataval was raised under the care of a rag-tag group of idealists who called themselves the "Viridian Hood". Through unorthodox and often wily means, the elders of this tribe of exiles sought to free their forests from the oppression of the malevolent Aldmeri Dominion. And, among this band of rebels, it was thanks to the compassion of a Nordic immigrant that the infant Bosmer survived his preliminary years. But, like the majority of the "Hood", his mother Yursula had long since passed away.

An orphan twice over, he had since learned to fend for himself in the wild- but adaptable- forests of Valenwood. And had done so, successfully, for ten years. However, now a young man of nineteen years, Sataval had grown weary of the repetitiveness in his life. The same survival. The same struggle. The sameness. It was during rare moments like these, when he managed to garner the time to lay down upon the grass and stare at the leaves above, that he dreamt about the lands afar. Lands he crafted in his mind's eye, aided by the stories his mother had recalled long ago.

What were the untamed jungles of his land compared to the _Alik'r Desert_? The elegant architecture of _Eldenroot_ compared to the _White Gold Tower_? The _graht-oaks_- even the very city of _Falinesti_- compared to the fabled mountains of _High Hrothgar_? He wanted, more than anything, to find out on his own. But, even without family, Sataval was still anchored to Valenwood. Whether it was a subconscious fear of what lay beyond its borders, a lack of confidence in his abilities to adapt past said boundaries, or the equally as strong desire to learn who his biological parents had been... the elf did not truly know.

But it was, most likely, a combination of all.

Realizing the sky was gradually ripening into the evening it would become, he took a deep sigh, his right hand searching for the grip handle of his Nordic bow in the grass. Once found, he would swiftly propel himself forwards in a rapid motion, hopping up on sandaled feet immediately thereafter. Dusting the blades of grass off his backside with his free hand, Sataval would roll his shoulders, the leather pads upon them slightly creaking as a result. In addition to that, his attire also consisted of a lightweight and sleeveless leather armor, leather padding on his forearms, black pants, knee guards, and an old pair of worn black boots.

With his mother's Nordic bow in hand, but no quiver or arrows in sight, the young Bosmer would jog towards the depths of the surrounding rain forest, exiting a clearing surrounded by countless colorful flowers swaying gently in the shade of the trees. It was then that he'd strap the bow firmly to himself, putting his slender but toned physique between its durable string and exquisitely carved limbs. Then, with as much finesse as an acrobat at the circus, he would burst with speed at the sight of the nearest boulder, using it to propel himself upwards in one powerful and sudden leap.

His long strands of ebony hair flung about wildly in the air, then cracked like whips in unison when his hands managed to snatch onto a nearby vine. The force that came with such an abrupt action forced him to hang on tightly- especially as the vine carried him swiftly towards the other side of a large, moss covered tropical tree. Then, as the vine he rode drew closer to another cluster of its brethren, he would time and promptly execute a swift leap towards another. And so, with the naturality and ease of a jungle-dwelling monkey, he would continue this process- swinging from one vine to another, forgoing the winding dirt trails below, and making haste towards his destination.

Above the cover of the massive trees, the skies of Valenwood were filled with all manner of tropical birds, their morning songs coalescing into a single exotic score. In the near southern distance, spiraling towers crafted out of polished- and exquisitely carved- oak stood valiantly out of the sea of green. And, to the far north, a tree much larger than the others proudly beared a mane of richly colored leaves- so much leaves that to count each one would surely take a near immeasurable amount of lifetimes. This was the Bosmer homeland of Valenwood, a resplendent and awe-inspiring wild land, filled with all manner of swamps, forests, creatures, and curiosities.

Sataval, despite having spent his entire life here, had yet to discover all of the secrets of Valenwood. And, even while dreaming of lands afar, some part of him was certain he'd have many years to spend here still- years he'd spend discovering these very secrets, still wishing he had all that he needed to leave, and find his own fortune. But, as he would soon find out, fate oftentimes had a way of moving things forward. Sometimes, it coerced the unaware with seemingly coincidental nudges, fleeting thoughts that led to revelations and, ultimately, a change of course. But other times...

Other times, it used alternative- and more _destructive_- means.


End file.
